


Chasing Shadows

by Kvatia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dark Magic, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, M/M, Magic Manipulation, Magic Sensitivity, Manipulative Dumbledore, Moral Ambiguity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kvatia/pseuds/Kvatia
Summary: After Sirius’s death, Harry is left with only his grief for company and the realization that the course of war will only take more from him, condemned to a life of loss and loneliness. A realization - a question, results in him questioning all that he has ever known, and it may be his only chance to escape his fate. Takes place after OotP.





	1. Amber Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, that I write each chapter at least twice. The goal being for it to have a better flow as well as eliminate any grammar/spelling mistakes. That being said, no one else proof-reads these, so please tell me of any mistakes.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Lots of angst, mourning, grief, mentions of abuse and thoughts of suicide, John Steinbeck quotes, and bad treatment of books.

 

The darkness consumed him, licking every wound raw, a constant reminder that it is _so_ much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone. A dry, empty laugh escaped his throat as something like Steinbeck slipped into his mind, the quote offering words that he was unable to string together himself. He had never liked Steinbeck, and like some sort of retribution for that the line caressed him in the emptiness of the room - his room, he amended, but nothing felt like _his_ anymore. Even in the flickers of shadows, he could see the things he used to hold dear, his hopes, his dreams, slip away into nothing, leaving him once again alone with his grief.

 

It seemed that while he could ignore the throbbing in his back, the soreness in his muscles and the ache in his head, the feeling of despair was one without reprieve. Every footstep, every breath and spoken word seemed to only exist to remind him of that desolate fact. He looked to Hedwig’s empty cage, wanting, ever so briefly to run a finger down it’s hollow frame, yet his body refused to move, the exhaustion refusing to allow his form to move from the kneeling position it currently reside in. The blood on his back had dried, his shirt sticking uncomfortably, and he supposed that if he were to move, he would just tear open some of the wounds open again. Just as well, what was the point of approaching an empty cage, only to remind yourself that you’re the one imprisoned? He mused.

 

It had seemed as though they, his relatives, had realized that the fight had left him, leaving only a shell that seemed to welcome the abuse, the pain more accepted in it’s familiarity than the loss that devoured his spirit. The beatings had gotten worse, the chores more burdensome, and his belongings had been stolen from him, leaving him with only a small fragment of a mirror that he had refused to part with. Finding it while he had been packing had almost broken him, mingling the anguish with something almost worse - guilt. Knowing that if he had thought a little more, tried a little harder, been a little less reckless his godfather would not have died. If he hadn’t been bound by this damned prophecy no one who cared for him would have died.

 

And that led to the darkest of thoughts, what if there was no Harry Potter? Part of him hoped, as he bled, that in his uncle’s zealousness, he would kill him. He would take away the burden, the guilt, the grief, and leave nothing - like the darkness of this room. He wondered where his Gryffindor courage went in those moments he held the mirror shard to his flesh thinking of nothing but the end. None of it mattered, really. If he died, then maybe… maybe Neville could take his place, hadn’t Dumbledore essentially said as such? If it wasn’t Harry, it was Neville… he had said Voldemort had chosen _him_ , but if he was gone, he would be forced to choose Neville, right? Maybe, it was always meant to be Neville, and Voldemort had simply been given the illusion of choice.

 

After all, isn’t that was Harry had been given?

 

He frowned, and peered into the mirror, not seeing anything of value reflected back at him, and his throat caught, body suddenly shaking as a choked sob escaped him. Ever so briefly, he wondered how long he had been here, torn between two worthless choices, and decided it did not matter. Time passed strangely, anyways, too slow to be real, and even still, nothing actually mattered anymore. Sirius was dead, and soon, anything that he loved would follow. At the end of it all, he would victorious, but alone, grasping at fragments of memories that even time would steal from him.

 

At some point, fatigue stole his consciousness, only for Petunia to steal if back a meager four hours later with a sharp rap on his door, continuing the cycle that bound him as he became acquainted with the artificial smell of bleach and lemon, food he cooked but was not allowed to eat, and his uncles temper. As he worked, his mind focused only on those words that were now left unspoken, broken aspirations, and tarnished dreams. He thought of Sirius most, but he also thought of his friends that had not written him, he thought of those who abandoned him, and sometimes he thought of fate.

 

During the day, he felt like a doll - as hollow inside as Hedwig’s cage, his body a prison for the perished hopes he had once clung to with the desperation of a beaten 11-year old boy promised freedom. His hands moved instinctively, requiring him not to think, not to feel, and he willed himself to do just that as the smell of cleaner permeated the air - everything was spotless, devoid of life and utterly tawdry. At night, he just wept in his mourning - he mourned Sirius, he mourned his friends, and he mourned the future. An endless cycle.

 

Meanwhile, Hermione fended off her own unwelcome thoughts with text, her initial intention been an escape of her own, trying to divert herself from the shame that wormed its way across her skin like a sick parasite. She was leaving her friend alone to his thoughts, something she, herself thought a destructive idea, but the headmaster had requested - no, demanded, that she not write. She had still tried, of course, but after receiving no response from Harry, had abandoned the notion, instead abandoning herself in books. It had started out innocuous enough until something in the text caught her attention, and with a slow, crawling sense of horror, she looked up, her eyes locking onto amber. They stared back at her with an eerie sort of intelligence, and the crawling became more like a rush as her eyes flicked down at the page.

 

A thought occurred to her, with such ferocity that she froze, and again met the eyes of the owl, a whispered, confused, “No,” escaping her lips, but now the notion was there, nagging her with such insistence she knew, almost, somehow, _knew_ that she was right, even as the rational part of her brain demanded such questions as ‘why’ or ‘how.’ but she knew, she knew she was right, and the idea terrified her, because more important than the other questions that demanded her to pause in this pursuit, she wondered: what on earth did it mean? She snapped the book shut with such force, at any other time she might have winced, instead she just tossed the book from her as though it had personally offended her, and it had - it made her question _everything_.

 

 _Oh, Merlin,_ she thought, her mind racing down possible avenues, her feet matching each step as she paced back and forth. She had so many choices, but the question that followed them was: which is the best one? This needed to be handled, she decided, as soon as possible, and oh, so carefully. She did not know what all of it meant, but she knew that it needed to be handled delicately - discreetly. And then it struck her, where she might felt help, and while the idea made her nauseous, she sat down and wrote a letter, one carefully worded letter that took her several hours to perfect before she glanced at Hedwig. “Do you mind?” She asked the creature, who merely hooted and extended her foot. Somehow, it seemed so fitting that the owl would deliver the letter, and she smiled - a small, strained smile, but a smile nonetheless as Hedwig flexed and flew. “Please, don’t get caught,” she murmured, carefully plucking up a left-behind feather.

 

.

Harry was startled when an owl fluttered by his bedroom window, a great brown thing with massive green eyes that peered at him almost testily as it stuck it’s foot between the bars of his window. Wiping away the wetness from his face, he stood, a surprised groan escaping his lips when it hurt more than he had thought it would - had the beating been that bad? - he questioned, as a hand moved to the forefront of his body, cradling his chest. A shaking hand relieved the bird of it’s burden, and it sat, pensively, on a nearby tree branch, as though waiting. He uncurled the letter and a sound escaped his mouth, half sob half sigh as he read:

 

**Dear Harry,**

**If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.**

**If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.**

**Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,**

**I am, yours most sincerely,**

**Albus Dumbledore**

 

Much to his surprise, a hysterical sort of laughter began to bubble within him, spilling out as his legs gave way beneath him, sending him crumbling to the floor in a heap. Tears escaped his eyes, burning as they slid down his cheeks, and yet, the laughter never ceased, not even as he wrote his reply with a discarded broken pen, a barely-legible, ‘yes,’ that the owl took away from him with a look of disdain before it left him, a sobbing mess on the floor, unsure of even why the letter had elicited such a response from him. The only thing he was sure of, when he heard the shout from his Uncle, followed by heavy footprints, was that he would soon be forced to face oblivion. And as a slow smile crept across his face, he waited.

 

And waited.

 

A series of clicks, and he looked up at the door, the smile slowly fading from his face as an unfamiliar figure entered the room, too thin to be his uncle, too tall to be Petunia, and his expression contorted into a frown. “Who are you?” He asked the shadow, the hoarseness of his voice more noticeable in the silence as it cracked on the syllables. A forceful hand pulled on one of his own, tearing him unwillingly from his position on the floor, and he let out a high. agonized sound at the abruptness. “Keep your mouth shut,” snapped a familiar voice, and alarm ran through him with such acuteness that without thinking, he tried to tear his arm from the man, gasping a quick: “No, let me go.”

 

“Harry,” another voice whispered, and he froze, eyes darting to the doorway, noticing that behind the tall figure had been a much smaller one.

 

“Hermione?” He asked, his head beginning to swim, partially due to pain, partially due to malnourishment.

 

“Just do as your told for once,” she commanded, before she raised her wand and uttered something he never would have expected to come from her - especially with such sharp clarity: “Morsmordre!”

 

***

 

When Harry awoke, it was to the faint, but incessant chiming sound that echoed in the room and in his ears. It seemed vaguely familiar, but also foreign, like something he had heard distantly, but never paid attention to. Blearily, he opened his eyes, swiftly followed by a feeling of regret as too-bright light burned into his eyes. He could see nothing beyond the light, but he could hear voices suddenly start speaking with such fervour it seemed as though whatever they were discussing was important. Was he dead? The thought was intrusive, but there it was, and he began to wonder. He did not remember his uncle coming to him - had the man actually killed him? Previous musings brought to fruition, he supposed, as he lay there.

 

Still, he had expected death to be a little bit _more_ . More what, he was not entirely uncertain, but definitely more. Blinding light, soft but incessant voices and that chiming… it was rather dull. He rather wished that the voices were more clear, or that there was something to look at, actually listen to, or even _do,_ but instead he found nothing. Not even his body was willing to appease him, refusing to move even a fraction of a millimeter. He could open his eyes though, and wasn’t that something? He wanted to sigh, but the sound simply would not leave him. Maybe he could just close his eyes again and drift off… spend the rest of eternity sleeping?

 

After a few moment, he realized it was not working, and he tried again, desperately, to move, managing this time to move his pinky finger ever so slightly. Then, suddenly, the white light was gone, and in its stead was the ugly face of his potions professor, lank hair curtaining his face as he peered down his large nose at Harry. “Idiot boy, stop trying to move. You could end up causing permanent muscle paralysis, nerve damage among a litany of other nasty side-effects. Nevermind the state your mind is in-’

 

“Where am I?” He blurted, and Snape scowled.

 

“Undergoing treatment,” the man replied, tone laden in disapproval.

 

“Treatment? He repeated, numbly. “Not dead then, I suppose?”

 

“No,” came the stern response, but within it was also confusion.

 

“Alas,” he sighed, thankful that the sound was there now. “What is that chiming?”

 

“Nothing particularly important,” the potions master quipped. A pause then, “Are you not going to ask what the treatment is for?”

 

“I can assume,” Harry replied simply. “Although, I am not terribly fond of you knowing,” he glared, “or anyone. How you found out is beyond me.”

 

“You knew?” Came the surprised tone, a voice he didn’t quite recognize, and he attempted to lift his head to look, but found his vision to blurry and his body too unwilling. Nevertheless, he laughed, a cold, sardonic laugh.

 

“How could I not know? It’s not like he snuck up on me and beat me without my knowing, now is it?”

 

“Mr. Potter,” Snape’s voice had the undertone of alarm this time, and Harry frowned. “What are you on about?” The question made him stiffen, and a horrible panic found its way into his chest and how he wished he could _move._

 

“What are _you_ talking about?” Came his ever-so-clever response, but really, how could he do better when his heart rate had skyrocketed so high, pulsing the fear in every single beat of his heart?

 

“There are...amendments to your magic and memories, Mr. Potter. We are currently attempting to reinstate them to normal.” Came that other voice again, and then she whispered, not to him, but to Snape: “I was going to speak to you after I finished - I had not counted on him rousing.” She sounded apologetic.

 

“He was beaten?” Came the only reply

 

“We will discuss later,” came the firm answer.

 

“Who are you?” Harry snapped, cutting into their exchange.. “What are you talking about? Amendments?”

 

“Who I am is unimportant right now, what matters is you rest. After that, we can speak more,” and then with a silent spell, Harry was back asleep.

 

The next time he woke, there was no light, there were no voices, but the chiming was still there, as though taunting him. What _was_ that? Blearily, he looked to his surroundings, seeing only things that made him more confused, two empty bookshelves, void of even trinkets, and simply the bed he lay in, stark white sheets and a large white duvet - fluffier than anything he had ever owned, much less seen before. The walls were barren, a muted blue colour, and the ceiling was much the same. A door sat adjacent to him, and slowly he stood from the bed, finding he was in different clothes - navy pajama bottoms that did not belong to him, soft and almost certainly high quality, and a simple black shirt. He flexed, finding no signs of pain or injury and winced. Someone had healed him, which meant someone had seen them - the marks. Shame washed over him, and he was half tempted to return to the bed and never leave.

 

Yet, he had too many questions and no answers. So, he did the only thing he could do - he opened the door.

 

Severus Snape was not an ignorant man by any means, nor did he think he overlooked evidence in favour of his own beliefs, but in this circumstance it had never occurred to him to question something so meagre, so simple. Yet, the Granger girl had done just that - and now, they sat with the only Healer he knew that would be able to help them without immediately reporting to Dumbledore - Narcissa Malfoy. And, of course, Hedwig the owl, who's amber eyes peered at him in almost a demeaning fashion, and despite that it was an _owl_ who stared at him in such a way, he could not find it in himself to feel anything other than chastised. Appropriately so, not that he would ever admit it aloud.

 

“You’re saying you knew because of the owl,” Narcissa repeated, her eyebrows almost receding into her hair.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and although her voice shook, probably due to the fact that she was a muggle-born addressing one of the Dark Lord’s followers, she still sounded rather confident. “He named her Hedwig, which is a name found in Hogwarts, A History - a saint who tried to create orphanages for muggleborn children who were abandoned or abused at the hands of their parents. She’s mentioned only briefly, and I believe, the only way he would be familiar with the name is if he had the read the book itself, which he seemed to lack the knowledge to indicate as such. And despite being muggle-raised, isn’t it odd? That he did not read any of his school books prior to school? Or that a wizard of supposedly unfathomable power, able to defeat erm,” she caught herself before the words escaped her lips, and abruptly changed the line of thought, “Who could survive the killing curse, was average at best in magical performance? It seemed as though all he learned, with exception to defensive, light spells, was forgotten just moments later. I never questioned it, but perhaps I should have.”

 

“That was barely any evidence, just suspicions and behaviour typical of a teenage boy,” Narcissa replied, her voice as unfeeling and controlled as usual, but Severus knew that she was curious. Inquisitive minds often find interest in one another, he supposed. The two girls could probably talk for days.

 

“And yet, she proved to be right,” He cut in, the idea of sitting between the two as they debated already making him weary.

 

“Indeed,” Narcissa acknowledged with a nod of her head.”There seems to be something, however, within his magic that I was unable to remove, some sort of… taint? It was feeding off his magic, like a parasite, I managed to sever the connection, but still it remains. I was unable to remove it.” She paused, and pursed her lips in annoyance, and then, almost as if to herself she added, “I have never seen anything like it.”

 

“Perhaps it was what Dumbledore was talking about - he spoke of a connection of magic between the Dark Lord and Potter.”

 

“You said you severed it?” Hermione cut in, her eyes sharp. “Can the connection regrow?”

 

“I do not believe so, no. But like I said, I have never encountered the likes of it before… I cannot be sure.”

 

“What does any of this mean?” A huff of frustration, more than words, but quite frankly, Severus agreed with the girl.

 

“It means we are all being played for fools,” was the only reply he could conjure. He proposed, that it was a good thing the chiming stopped drawing their attentions from the conversation, because it allowed for him to not have to come with a more conclusive answer. None of them had time to dwell on it, for that was when Harry Potter decided to open the door, green eyes glaring at the three of them. A singular chime broke the silence, before going mute once more.

 

“What is that?” The boy snapped.

 

“Apparently, faulty,” Severus Snape replied with forced calm.

 

Harry narrowed his eyes at his potions master in irritation. His answer, did not, in any way answer his question. It was then that he noticed it, just a faint movement, and his eyes widened, “What the hell is that?” A black shadow flickered across Snape’s frame, almost as though it were licking him, caressing him - he could feel it from here, and when he realized that, with a certain clarity, he realized he could feel it from the other two in the room as well. It was different, of course, but whatever, _it_ was, it was definitely the same thing.

 

“Like I said, faulty,” Snape replied, annoyance making its way into his voice. “But if you _must_ know -”  
  
“No!” Harry interrupted with such vigour it startled the older man, causing a black eyebrow to shoot up in surprise. “That!” He eloquently put as he pointed at the shadow that was steadily becoming more visible, almost like tightly controlled fire - no, more like fog, he supposed, as it cloaked his potions master, moving every so slightly in a way he could only call aggravation. Snape followed his finger to find, evidently, nothing.

 

“Pardon?” Came the confused response, and the shadow seemed to twitch to reflect the question, curling in on itself.

 

“Is that…,” and suddenly as it occurred to him, he knew he was right, the second part of his question less unsure, yet still puzzled, “your magic.” A pause. “I can see it.” And while the potions professor remained still, unmoving, the shadow - no, his magic, twisted and turned, almost in a violent fashion, coiling outwards, almost reaching towards him, before constricting back.

 

“Impossible,” came the quiet reply.

 

An even quieter voice said, almost as though she couldn’t believe, “Magic sensitivity.” His eyes flickered to meet Hermione’s, and if he had thought that Snape’s magic was anything like fire, the idea was cast out the window as the light, bluish tone of the girls magic roared around her, fierce and devouring, comparable only to her passion.

 

“It’s giving me a headache,” he commented, in a hushed tone, concern sweeping through him. “What does it mean? Will it go away?”

 

“No,” came a sharp response. He tried, he really did, to avoid meeting Narcissa’s eyes, but involuntarily he found himself there, her magic soft, emanating from her almost like a light - if it were possible for something such a dark colour of blue to be a light. “It’s hereditary, and a gift. Being able to see other’s magic - something so intimate, so powerful. I wonder why such a thing would be blocked from you.”

 

“Blocked,” he repeated, numbly. “You said that before, what do you mean?”

 

“Someone has been manipulating your memories, your magic, your power,” Narcissa said smoothly, as though it was something that could be taken in stride. Beside her, a vase shattered, and ever so slightly, she flinched. She turned her head to look at the remaining fragments, “That was - oh, nevermind,” she sighed.

 

“Who?” He growled.

 

“Harry,” Hermione spoke again, her voice gentle.

 

“Most likely Albus Dumbledore,” Snape cut in, and Hermione shot him a glare that would wither lesser men. Instead, he appeared less than impressed.

 

And with that pronouncement, something inside Harry broke, and he he covered his face with his hands, betrayal stinging at his eyes, yet the tears remain unshed. He gave Narcissa a long look between his fingers, as he focused on his own memories, recalling with more clarity than he ever had, and asked, “Is it possible to block the memory of something existing all together?”

 

“Yes,” came the reply.

 

“If I showed you something, could you tell me if it _was_ blocked?”

 

A nod. Then: “Are you ready?” It was his turn to nod.

 

“Legilimens,” She said softly, and he felt her presence only briefly before she withdrew.

 

“Was it?”

 

“Yes,” And with such a simple response, they were all damned. Harry’s mind was still on Sirius’s mirror.


	2. Recklessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the overwhelming positive feedback you all have given me! Truthfully, it astounds me, and I want to thank every single one of you that took the time to leave a comment, kudos, or even bookmark my story. It is really motivating to put a lot of effort into this story and not let you down. So, thank you.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Arguing, more quotes, language, vows, Dumbledore and Ron.

Shards of glass littered the floor, glittering with the light of stars reflected from the open window and into the vacant blue eyes, as though trying to replace the twinkle they usually held, now lost. Albus Dumbledore, by all accounts, was not a particularly violent man, that much was true, yet there stood the shards of anger, a physical representation of failure - in more than one aspect. He had not once considered failure to this degree - his wards had failed him, his magic, his Order, and even his plans. He stared at the shards at his feet, fragments of what they used to be, now discarded, useless, and devoid of purpose, much like the many years he had thus far wasted building up to this moment in time. He knew, like many did, that even the best of plans go awry, but that was precisely why he had planned to the extent that he had, moved everyone and everything to the proper place, paving a road for others to walk. The shattered glass mocked him for that, taunted him for thinking all was within his control, ridiculed him. A quick spell and they were banished, yet the raw feeling, akin almost to defeat, remained.

 

“Severus,” He murmured into the empty room, and almost immediately the man appeared, taking shallow breaths as though each expanse of his chest hurt him. Visibly, it was evident the man was having a difficult time standing, and yet his pride was stronger than his own body, holding him rigidly upright, occasionally trembling with the strain, and visually looking on the brink of collapse.

 

“Albus,” He replied coolly, but the effect was lost overall between the pain that laced his tone, and the sheer fact that his tone had ceased to faze the older man.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Came the command, a lull almost, as he sought out the other’s mind with his own.

 

“Loathe I am to admit, I am not entirely certain,” the black-haired man began, pausing as he began to cough - a horrendous gasping noise. “It seems as though they became aware of Potter’s home address. Through what means,  I am, again, uncertain. The Dark Lord -”

 

“Voldemort,” Dumbledore corrected, almost spitefully, and Severus winced.

 

“The Dark Lord,” Severus repeated, “spoke as if He, himself, along with only one other Death Eater went to obtain the boy. The name of which he was not particularly forthcoming, even after I asked.” He let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh that ended with him with him choking on the sound before continuing. “The results of my question, I am sure, are evident to you. However, it seems as though when they arrived at his residence, only his relatives were there. They are currently being held in the dungeons while he attempts to extract the location of the boy, which seems to be a futile endeavour; I do not believe they know, Albus. A fact, which, I believe the Dark Lord is also aware of, but I think he hopes to either lure the boy out, or simply enjoy torturing the muggles.”

 

“I see,” the older man replied, his tone considering, thoughtful, as he peered directly into the onyx eyes that met his own, unwavering.

 

“However,” Snape continued, expression narrowing slightly. “I am concerned. The connection that the Dark Lord and Potter share - is it possible that is how he was able to -”

 

“No,” Albus interrupted him, and Severus waited patiently for a moment, before scowling with the realization that no further information would be forthcoming. “I refuse to discuss the connection with you, Severus. The risks -”

 

A laugh escaped Severus then, entirely against his will, before he nodded. “There is always risk, Albus.”

 

“The risks are too great. It will put you -” and seeing Severus’s expression, Dumbledore changed tactics “-it will put _everything_ in danger.”

 

“I think it already is, Albus,” Severus scoffed, before pausing, as though deliberating, and speaking again with false hesitancy. “You may want to consider the possibility of another spy - one working against you, unmarked. That is, another way the boy’s whereabouts could have been discovered without the use of the link.”

 

Albus’s expression, if anything, turned even more grave. “Do you truly believe that, Severus?”

 

He didn’t. “I do.”

 

And with that, he was excused.

 

Several steps later, and Severus let out a long sigh. He had never been the type to manipulate others of his accord, his own agenda, and truthfully it was ever so slightly draining. He had not gained any information on the mental connection between that blasted boy and his darker lord, but nevertheless, he had managed to plant the seeds of doubt. Initially, it had been the Granger girl’s idea, and however reluctant he was to admit it anywhere but the safety of his own mind, the idea had merit. _Conspiring with children,_ he mused, caught between a snort and another sigh, _to what depths will I fall?_

 

Once he reached the outer perimeter of Hogwarts, he apparated back to the mess he had gotten himself into, only to immediately wish he had stopped for a drink first, for he had landed into a screaming match between Harry Potter and Narcissa Malfoy. Although, admittedly, only Potter was screaming, yet the cold, cool tone of the female Malfoy did nothing to coat nor conceal her anger. Honestly, what could he have expected? The strange truce they had seemed to have was now shattered, and here he was, accidentally in the middle of it, wondering if he could just apparate back out without anyone noticing.

  
“They haven’t been at it long,” came a murmur from his side, and silently he cursed. There goes his escape and that bottle of alcohol he had not realized he’d need.

 

“Your husband tried to kill me!” Potter shouted, and Severus glanced at the brown-haired girl beside him.

 

“Woeful it is to admit, I am not entirely certain it would be prudent to interfere. Do you think it will resolve on its own?” He whispered back.

 

“Under orders, in an effort to protect his family. You’re the reason he is an Azkaban, might I add,” Narcissa snapped.

 

“An effort to protect his family? From his lord who killed _my_ family?”

 

“Are you held accountable for all the mistakes of _your_ youth?” Came her bitter reply.

 

“Mistake?” He repeated mocking, “How is pledging your life to a murderer a _youthful mistake_?”

 

“I really am not sure of anything anymore,” Finally came Granger’s reply, and Severus supposed that was a fair response. Which was just as well…

 

“Did you not make the same mistake?” It was a cold response, and Harry’s mouth opened and shut, unable to articulate a response, and his gaze dropped, before, finally, after a long moment had passed,

 

“Voldemort killed my parents.” It was barely audible.

 

“Dumbledore left you to be abused, destroyed your magic, stripped you of choice, and killed your godfather.”

 

“Your sister killed my Godfather,” he growled.

 

She bowed her head in aquisence. “She… she had grown insane along with our Lord. I know I have no right, but I apologize for your loss.”

 

“I…,” Potter broke off, and Severus almost groaned. While all of this was a necessity, he was uncertain if he was equipped for tears as of the moment. He glanced at Granger again for help, only to find that she had begun walking towards Harry, settling an arm on his shoulder in an almost motherly comfort.

 

“That’s alright,” she replied to the boy’s unspoken words, a soft smile on her lips, and Harry gave her a long look before nodding.

 

Sufficiently convinced tears were not forthcoming, Severus took a step forward, the younger boy’s eyes immediately rising to meet his, and there they were - an endless gaze of green, those eyes, that stared at him, unwavering. He frowned before, not of his own volition, words spilled from his mouth, “What is it that you want, Potter?”

 

“To end the war,” he replied simply.

 

“Only the dead see the end of war,” Narcissa interjected softly.

 

The brat scowled, a retort ready on his lips that seemed to die as a contemplative expression crossed his features. “I would like to learn more magic, for now. Gain my own strength, and fight my own battle.” He frowned, briefly. “I do have a question, though. You said you removed the blocks, correct?” A quick nod in response, before he continued, “I can’t remember any of the reading I may have done. Even the content of Hogwarts, A History.”

 

“Ah,” Narcissa replied, a note in her voice that made Harry give her a sharp look. “My apologies, I should have explained better. The blocks prevented you from using your magic and also impacted your ability to retain information. Unfortunately, in order to regain that information, you will have to reread it- and relearn it.”

 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” He snapped. “Would it be alright if I borrowed your library then?” Hermione glanced from him to Narcissa in keen interest, but the other woman looked ever so briefly alarmed, casting a quick glance to one of the doors, before replying, carefully:  
  
“Unfortunately, I must request you stay in this portion of the house. Any of the books that you request, I can bring to you.”

 

“That’s a little difficult,” he murmured, “How am I supposed to know what I want if I cannot see them?”

 

“Harry, don’t be rude,” Hermione chastised.

 

“A compromise,” Severus cut in, withdrawing his wand, murmuring ‘ _infinitam scientiam’_ under his break, and almost chuckling as the Granger girl took a step forward in curiosity. “Say either the name of a book, or the content you are looking for, and a list will appear on this” -another quick spell, and a flick of the wrist, unfolding a long piece of parchment, “will appear with potential books. Tap one with your wand, and the book will appear beside you. Obviously, not all of the titles will appear on the parchment, the Malfoy collection is _extensive,_ however, this should suit your needs, no?”

 

Harry reached out to accept the parchment, giving Snape a long, unreadable look, before doing the unthinkable: “Thank you.”

 

Snape returned the look levelly, before nodding sharply. “There is also a great deal of planning to be done,” he began, his voice low, keen, and Harry fought the urge to shiver. “We need to be able to explain your absence, as well as excuse Granger’s - if they notice. Also, there’s the question of whether you are to return to Hogwarts, and regardless of which you choose - what you will do after.”

 

“The illusion of choice,” Harry murmured.

 

“This is a choice,” Snape snapped.

 

“I am aware,” he replied, “But… I think having only one option has taken away my ability to…”

 

“Think for yourself?” The man supplied, and beside Harry, Hermione took in a sharp breath, mouth opening to retort.

 

“Exactly,” Harry agreed, stunning the both of them silent. “For now, I am going to study, learn what I can. Think things over, and decide. In the meantime, can I trust you to help me plan?”

 

Snape frowned, “You don’t trust me.”

 

“I do… now, at least. But I suppose you have an excellent point. Would it be possible for you to swear to me that you will not tell Dumbledore the truth for now?”

 

“I do advise in all of your future attempts to bind people in vows, that you choose your words more carefully, Potter.” He glared, partially at the boy, and partially at his own idiocy. _What was he doing?_ “It would also be in your best interest to have all of us in this room swear said vow.” _Merlin, curse him,_ he thought as he verbally armed himself with a shovel to dig his own grave. Truthfully, the fucking thing had to be at least two feet deep by this point. Lily’s son might as well be heading on his own path to becoming his next lord, and here _he_ stood like the idiotic twat he was. As though he knew what he was thinking, Harry raised an eyebrow at the man.

 

“To be honest, Snape,” the boy said, his name coming from his mouth with a ‘pop’ on the ‘p,’ and the man himself winced. “I am surprised you are helping me.”

 

“I find myself in a similar position,” he admitted, scathingly. _I am master only to myself, and even that, only sometimes_ , his mind supplemented as Lily’s name flickered across his thoughts. Somehow, though, he knew that did not account for the entirety of it - the ignorance, the manipulation of the boy before him, the way that all the pieces had fallen, he had hoped to maybe find meaning to all that he had done. If he had been part of the reason Lily’s son, no, Harry, suffered, he would endeavour to repay his debts. At least, that was the reasoning he could decide on in that moment, after all, he knew deep down he still was not entirely certain why he was doing this. _If he had just told Dumbledore -_

 

No. Dumbledore had abandoned him long ago.

 

Narcissa took a quick step forward, grasping Harry’s hand in her own, before beginning, “I, Narcissa Malfoy, vow to not reveal what I have learned or done in regards to the constraints placed on Harry Potter’s mind and magic, lest it comes to a point where it is agreed upon by the aforementioned Harry Potter, or in an attempt to, when no other option is feasible, save my family, reveal that information. Further, I vow to not reveal I have any knowledge of Mr. Harry Potter’s whereabouts in the time span that he is housed within the Manor in regards to this particular situation. So mote it be.” Narcissa swore into the silence, and Harry could see her magic twist with the words, confining her within them. He frowned, guilt tugging in the pit of his abdomen, but he said nothing. This was necessary. “However, Mr. Potter, I expect a return vow.”

  
“Oh?” He asked.

 

“Mr. Harry Potter, I dare say you owe me a favour,” Narcissa said shrewdly. “As such, I request that you try to protect my son in the upcoming school year.”

 

“Insinuating, of course, that I have to return to Hogwarts,” Harry replied, eyes narrowing. The woman nodded. He fought the urge to break away from her grip, but of course, he knew she was right, detestable as it were. “What am I protecting him against?”

 

“Those who may wish to harm him. I am asking you to keep him alive, Harry Potter.”

 

“I, Harry Potter, vow to protect and defend your son, Draco Malfoy, from those who intend to seriously harm, or kill him in the upcoming school year. So mote it be.” He grimaced as his own magic coiled around him, almost serpentine, and while he could not _see_ his own magic, for whatever reason, he could _feel_ it. Constricting. Suffocating. He gasped.

 

“I, Hermione Jean Granger, endeavour to protect Harry Potter in the upcoming war, and the role he places himself within it. I also vow to conceal my knowledge of the _constraints,_ ” she repeated the word choice of Mrs. Malfoy, “on his mind and magic , nor may I reveal any information that may endanger him until such a time that said Harry Potter instructs me it is no longer necessary to do so. So mote it be.” Harry whipped around to stare at Hermione, he own vow significantly more broad than the other two, and with the look in her eyes, he knew it had been intentional.

 

““I, Severus Snape, vow to not reveal what I have learned or done in regards to the constraints placed on Harry Potter’s mind and magic, lest it comes to a point where it is agreed upon by the aforementioned Harry Potter. Further, I vow to not reveal I have any knowledge of Mr. Harry Potter’s whereabouts in the time span that he is housed within the Malfoy Manor in regards to this particular situation. So mote it be,” Severus Snape swore, his vow largely a reiteration of Narcissa’s.

 

They all were silent under the weight of the vows for quite a while after, and the words hung in the air between them, forcing them to realize the extent of what they had before Harry spoke, “Well, I’m hungry. I hear the Malfoy cuisine is better than that of Hogwarts’” Where he had heard that, no one asked which was just as well, after all - he hadn’t.

 

***

 

 _Boo!_ Harry watched with a great amount of humour as his friend jumped, dropping the book she had been holding with an unrefined screech. He chuckled lightly to himself, until the girl’s brown eyes fixed onto his, turning to the laughter to an almost hysterical direction.

 

 _Harry,_ she chastised, shaking her head, before picking up the book, and, much to his surprise - chucking it at his head.

 

“Hey!” He exclaimed. “Show some respect!” He caught the book with ease - but that was only part of the problem. He saw his friend’s lips quirk, fighting a smile, and he abruptly dropped the book. Just in time, too, as with a sharp ‘clack’ the book bit down on where his fingers would have been. He frowned at it with mock sorrow, “I thought we had seen the last of man eating books our third year,” he groaned.

 

“It seems as though quite a few of these books have… quirks. One kept demanding blood sacrifices in order for it to reveal it’s ‘true secrets.’”

 

Harry smirked, “Did you do it?”

 

Annoyance crossed her features, and that just caused him to raise an eyebrow in knowing. “Fine! Yes!...After I checked for dark spells, yes.” She pursed her lips. “It was just a recipe book, Harry! An ordinary, recipe book!”

 

“With some very mean meatloaf,” he suggested, sputtering back into laughter at the look she gave him.

 

“You’ve gotten rather decent at Legilimency,” she commented, “I didn’t feel you enter my mind that time.”  


He grinned, “I find it’s much easier now that I can see your magic. My occlumency is almost perfect now too. I can just see the magic creeping into my mind, and use my own to shove it out. At least, that’s what it feels like.”

 

She sighed, “I wish that I could _learn_ how to see magic like that - it just - it sounds so useful!” He watched as her magic licked at the air around it in irritation.

 

 _I’m sorry,_ he thought to her, shoving with it all the sincerity he felt. She smiled softly at him. “It’s not your fault, really, I just wish I had something of my _own_.”

 

“Other than your ability to swallow books?” He quipped, and her expression flattened. “In the most flattering way I can mean it, of course. You’ve read almost three times as many books as I have!”

 

“It would have been more if I had not reread them so many times,” she jabbed, playfully. “Honestly, the content in some of these is monstrous, but amazi - er,” she cut off, flushing.

 

“I agree,” he said, honestly. They had spent the last few days reading, practicing spells they had never heard of before, training their occlumency and legilimency - well, mostly Harry had been doing the last bit. Evidently, Hermione had decided to try and learn from the moment that Harry had first mentioned it, leaving Hermione simply enjoy the practice. Hermione smiled a faint smile in response, glancing down at the books they had compiled before a complicated expression crossed her features, contorting them into an ugly shape. “What?” He asked, concerned.

 

“We’re learning Dark Magic, Harry,” she whispered. “I always thought - I don’t know. What makes something Dark, and what makes something Light? How is doing what was done to you right, and what makes this wrong? How can one limit knowledge, - power?”

 

“‘There is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it,’” he whispered.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“It’s something Voldemort said to me my first year,” he winced. “Part of me is starting to think he was right. That by following Dumbledore so blindly, I was weak. I never sought anything for myself.” He frowned, as a realization uncurled within him. “I never took the time to question what I was doing or why. Screw Voldemort with his stupid Blood-Purity and screw Dumbledore with his stupid limitations on magic...” He paused, uncertain.

 

“Magic should be equal,” Hermione filled in, her voice slightly hushed. He nodded.

 

“Merlin, what am I doing?” He asked, not really expecting an answer, and nearly jumping out of his skin when one came.

 

“Going to your respective bedrooms to get packed,” Snape snapped. “You’ll be going to the Burrow - Harry, you and your ridiculous magic apparated to Miss Granger’s house in an effort to flee your Uncle’s house. A fleck of intelligence, I suppose, as you knew that a muggle residence would be without apparition wards, but would also be difficult for the Dark Lord to locate. Miss Granger, having an… acceptable level of intelligence obliviated her parents of the incident and decided to take shelter for a few days, hoping to avoid having any run-ins before you went to the Burrow. A feeble, foolish plan, of course - but it is the reckless course of action you two decided to take. Understood?”

 

Harry nodded, slowly, “Understood. But why now?”

 

“Because Dumbledore is currently at the Ministry attempting to manipulate your trace. The wards here protect you, but I am sure the old fool will figure something out in time. So pack your things now, and then I shall apparate you to the Burrow, understood?”

 

“Understood, but Professor,” Hermione replied, “Why are you with us?”

 

“Why, you decided to write me, Ms. Granger - after all, the Dark Lord wouldn’t bother trying to intercept a faithful servants letters, no?” He shook his head, pulling a letter from his pocket, sprawled with text that looked suspiciously like Hermione’s handwriting.

 

“How did you -?”

 

“By using the actual letter you sent, Ms. Granger. Now, no more questions and go!” He snapped out the command, and Hermione scurried to oblige. Harry, however, regarded him coolly for another moment before following after his friend. He wanted it to be clear that he was doing it sheerly because it was prudent, and not because the older man had told him so. It was quick work, packing when he hadn’t even _unpacked_ , and then he found himself, hand in hand with a very stern and angry looking professor as they apparated. Harry tried his best to look insolent and slightly afraid. Overall, he think that experience made the expression convincing. Snape rapped sharply on the door of the slightly shambling building before them - the Burrow-, before the door was practically pulled off the hinges in the sheer fervour of the person behind it’s desperation to open it.

 

“Harry,” came the sigh of relief, and Harry tried his very hardest not to clench up in rage. He slammed his Occlumency shields down so fast, _he_ blinked.

 

“Professor Dumbledore,” He choked, pretending to be overcome with emotion that he no longer felt upon seeing man - affection, relief, security. In its place, buried deep beneath his mental barriers was the rage, betrayal, the hurt.

 

“You’ve been through a great deal in the past few days - come in, Molly had made a wonderful pot of cocoa.” The older man gestured inside with a wrinkled hand, and Harry took the invitation, entering the lion’s den with an odd sort of feeling, as though he was no longer one of them, and instead, would be feasted upon here. He supposed, in the past, he had been. He shook the thought away, settling comfortably into his normal chair while Hermione followed him, sitting silently beside him. The mother Weasley shot him a concerned look, sliding the cup of hot chocolate towards him without a word, and honestly, it smelled delightful.

 

Blue eyes watched him, filled with sorrow as he lifted it to his lips, and he almost gagged on the liquid. His magic told him something magical was within this mug, and he would have gladly bet 100 galleons that it was a diluted version of Veritaserum. He took another long sip, all the while ensuring that his barriers were as solid as he could build it to be, willing his magic to do _something_ about the Veritaserum, as he sincerely doubted he could just _shove out_ something he had ingested. But it would have been just as suspicious to not drink it wouldn’t it be? He didn’t know anymore.

 

“Tell me what happened, Harry,” Dumbledore asked when Harry had nearly finished his cup.

 

And Harry immediately launched into his tale, a wonderfully regurgitated version of events that Severus had drilled in him before their arrival as opposed to the truth.. His magic fought the Veritaserum, and his Occlumency stopped it from pulling the truth from his thoughts - so long as he projected that _this_ was the truth, by all intents and purposes, it seemed as though it might as well be. Dumbledore listened to his story, expression grave and Harry found himself fighting the urge to smile. By the end of it, he was sure he looked close to tears, at least, that’s the look he was going for. “Thank you, Harry,” he said somberly, “I think you ought to go see Ron, he was very worried about the two of you.” A sense of foreboding crept up Harry’s spine, but he dutifully ignored it.

 

“Thank you, Professor.”

 

And there it was, the end of the first trial. He nodded grimly, before making his way up the stairs to his friend’s bedroom, Hermione directly behind him. He could hear Dumbledore address Snape, but before he could even decide whether to both eavesdropping, Hermione spoke: “I think we ought to consider how we word things to him,” she whispered.

 

Harry drew his wand, and cast a quick Muffliato. “You’re suggesting we don’t just go in there and say: ‘Hey, mate, turns out Dumbledore’s been mucking around in my mind, which sort-of kind-of resulted in the death of Sirius? But hey, it’s all good, because Snape and Narcissa Malfoy fixed it, so I’m all better. But, let’s not continue to fight alongside Dumbledore, yeah?”

 

She rolled her eyes in response. “Don’t be a twat, Harry.” Harry raised an eyebrow. “But, do you even know what you want? I mean, you’re angry at Dumbledore, but you can’t just join V-Voldemort, now can you? Are you going to be neutral, or a third party?” She stuttered on the Dark Lord’s name, but the ferocity in which she spoke more than made up for it. “It’s a little important to how this conversation will go.”

 

“Can’t we just talk to him first, and get his opinion?” Harry queried, his hand reaching towards the door, but Hermione caught his wrist.

 

“I’m scared,” came the hurried but hushed admission, and he almost took a step back in surprise. “Somehow, telling Ron seems to make it more real.”

 

He nodded in understanding, before grabbing her hand a light squeeze, and letting it fall. “We will figure this out, Hermione. If anything, we will fight together.” He smiled with confidence he was nowhere near feeling, before reaching for the doorknob once again, and twisting it open.

 

“Mom!” Came the annoyed greeting, “Can’t you knock fir-” He had walked into view, and startled blue eyes met his own. “Harry… Hermione… Harry, you’re safe - we thought -, we were scared that -,”

 

“No,” Harry shook his head, before taking a couple steps forward, and closing the door solidly behind him. “Um, it’s a lot to explain, but… well, I think you might want to sit down.”  
  
Ron nodded, a little dumbly, before sitting back down on his rumbled bed covers, running a hand through his mussed hair - a movement Harry was half tempted to mimic in his nervousness. “Well, where to begin -” He let out a nervous laughter, but Hermione decided to take the lead.

 

“I was at home, reading,” He saw his redheaded friend roll his eyes in response, “And I realized something. I know you haven’t read Hogwarts, A History, but I have. And so has Harry.”

 

Ron chuckled lightly, “So this is the big news? Harry read a book over the summer?”

 

“Not this summer, Ron, before he started Hogwarts. He had to have. I didn’t understand, though, why any time a topic from it came up, Harry seemed so ignorant, because I realized he _had_ to have. He named his owl after a historical figure mentioned in the book.”

 

“Who is to say that he hadn’t read it elsewhere?”

 

“I’ve never read another book mentioning Saint Hedwig, I think there’s an entirely different reason for that, but that’s not important right now,” she continued in a rush. “I started to wonder why he didn’t remember it. I realized a bunch of other things that didn’t make since, and then I wrote Professor Snape, and - “

 

“You _what_?” Ron demanded, his voice rising along with his body. “You wrote that greasy git of a -”

 

“Ron, this will go a lot faster if you just listen,” Harry interrupted impatiently. The redhead shot him a dirty look, settling back down on his bed.

 

“Right, um.” Hermione flustered, continuing her monologue with eloquence, “He thought I was crazy. I wrote him again, explaining more of my suspicions and we decided to meet - I _know_ Ron,” she snapped as the boy started to rise again, “and we kidnapped Harry. Um, and then we took him to the Malfoy Manor.” Choking sounds ensued. “Well, um, it turns out that DumbledorehasbeenmessingwithHarry’smagic,” she finished in a breathless rush, desperation to get the words out contorting them to a barely comprehensible mess.

 

“What?”

 

“Dumbledore tampered with my magic and memories,” he explained. “I don’t understand why, yet but I think -”

 

“That’s bullshit!” Ron snapped, and Hermione recoiled from the volume of it. “How do you know the Slytherins aren’t just pulling something on you? Trying to turn you against Dumbledore, and to You-Know-Who to _die_?”

 

“I can see magic now,” Harry whispered. “I couldn’t before. Your magic - it’s green, like forest leaves, swaying almost and -”

 

“You need to tell Dumbledore,” Ron interrupted. “They cursed you. They tricked you - they deceived you. Or is this some sort of joke?”

 

“It’s not a joke, Ron,” Hermione pleaded, “Please. We spent all night talking about it and -”

 

“ALL NIGHT?” He screeched. “You two - you, that’s what it is, isn’t it. You betrayed me!” He had pulled his wand out, advancing on Hermione, and Hermione whimpered.

 

“Ron?” Harry cut in, only to find himself at the tip of said wand. He took a step back, “I think you’re misunderstanding -”

 

“Misunderstanding?” Came the hollered reply, so loud he almost didn’t hear it, barely spoken words buried under the weight of her tears:

 

“Obliviate.”

 

As the boy collapsed at Harry’s feet, he jerked his head up to meet Hermione’s eyes as she sobbed. “I was scared.” He took a quick step towards her, pulling her into a comforting embrace as they both looked upon the other. “I had hoped, but part of me had known this would happen.”

 

“Hermione?” He dared to ask, and much to his surprise, his voice sounded rough, unused.

 

“He was always quick to abandon us. I thought - I thought he would listen this time.” Harry nodded slowly, and it was at that moment he realized he was in shock. “I thought he would listen to _me_.” She shook her head. “It’s too late now, I suppose.”

 

“Are you giving up?” He asked.

 

“On him, yes. I could see it in his eyes - I knew he would… he’s Ron, everytime something doesn’t go his way, every time something isn’t as heroic for him as he wants it to be, he…”

 

“We could have given him a chance,” he murmured.

 

“We already did.” She met his eyes this time, her face tear-stained, and her eyes red rimmed and glassy. “We already did Harry. We can’t take chances anymore. Maybe… maybe later we can try again.” She was sobbing, and he felt so terribly sorry for her - he knew that she - well, this wasn’t really the time to talk about it, he supposed. Not when she was so emotionally raw.

 

He disentangled himself from her as she wiped the tears from her face. “He won’t remember the conversation. When he wakes up, we will stick to the lie we told everyone else.”

 

“And finish the summer like that?” He asked. She nodded.

 

“It seems to dangerous to write Professor Snape. It also seems dangerous to return to Hogwarts, but -”

 

“There seems like no other choice. We don’t have all the pieces yet. And I made a vow” His words were met with another nod. He waited for her to collect herself, shoving his own confused emotions deep within himself. It would take temporary residence there with his grief, rage and betrayal. His confusion - that, we could keep, he allowed himself to keep, it was only reasonable, after all, it worked as a motivator. A motivator to piece together some semblance of a plan, a catalyst to find out what he himself would do, what he _wanted_ , as Hermione had put it.

 

He cancelled the muffliato that hung around them as soon as they had regained themselves, their barriers slammed down within their mind, firm and formidable. He grabbed the redheaded boy’s shoulder, shaking him not-too-delicately while saying in an amused tone, “Ron, wake up. Why are you laying on the floor?” _Subdue one’s enemy by having them believe you are friends,_ his mind supplied, as he grinned at the bleary-eyes boy.

 

“Harry?” He blinked. “Harry, we were so worried!” He bolted upright, only this time, Harry was cautious, his plastered smile never wavering even as he reached into his friends mind, licking at the surface as green eyes met blue. Beneath his words, he was surprised to find insincerity, longing, desperation. Without Harry to cast him into the shadows, he believed he could be great. He could have Hermione, the fame, and hell, maybe even become the Saviour. Ambitious notions, but it was just as well. He blinked, as though the reminder hurt him, eyes downcast as he spoke softly, uttering the tale he had spun before, adding on a little, “I wish I had your brains for strategy -it would have made things a great deal easier.”

 

The redhead grinned, and behind him Hermione twitched. _Seem humble to fill them with conceit,_ he thought to her. To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t really accustomed to trying to manipulate people, and he could only hope he would get better. They had the rest of the summer to practice, to prepare, after all. He closed his eyes, ever so briefly, knowing that returning to Hogwarts would be a whole different level of difficult yet he could not force away that cold determination that settled within him. His would meet any challenge that met him, and this time, he was not as ignorant as he had been. Hermione stood behind him, but he could feel a similar resolve in her magic and it fed her own flames. And ever so briefly, he wondered, what is it _she_ wanted. And did she know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote 3 different versions of this chapter - and scrapped all of them. I had actually intended to upload this yesterday, but I had not had the opportunity to proof-read it until today. I have a hard time with pacing in stories, I do have a general outline of the story written, which helps. However, it is still something I struggle with, so let me know if the pacing is too fast, too slow, or if you have any concerns. 
> 
> As for Ron, I'm sorry but I'm also not. He will be a reoccurring character, just... how I always thought of him as in the books - stubbornly ignorant and quick to abandon his friends. He did it several times throughout the books, so so it's not particularly out of character. Albeit, he always did come back.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, Dumbledore is manipulative in the books, I am just exploiting and exacerbating it to my own ends. I'm not going to turn him into some grand schemer who is just pointless cruel. Everything is to achieve an end, after all. 
> 
> Secondly, Ron did not appear in this chapter, but he will be in the next. 
> 
> Um, lastly, this is my first time uploading work. I'd love feedback of any kind. Anticipate weekly updates.


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